


Blood on blood

by heartbreaksoul



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24895696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartbreaksoul/pseuds/heartbreaksoul
Summary: A pair of lovers can’t be a pair of lovers if they don’t know they’re in love, can they?Or: what the Doctor learned of war and love.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan), Twelfth Doctor/Missy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	Blood on blood

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not really sure what this is to be perfectly honest, but I'm starved enough for attention to post it. I took some liberties with the canon but hopefully they won't be very distracting. Title is from “Blood on Blood” by Bon Jovi.

When the Doctor is a child, he thinks he knows what love is.  
  
Love is how he feels about Koschei. Love is how they look at each other when no one is seeing them. The way he presses his mouth against Koschei’s shoulder when they embrace after a long day.  
  
Love is simple.  
  
It’s a story that keeps getting told, one that keeps him warm when his room grows chill and quiet at night, when he looks out into space and sees nothing but black.

Love is what keeps things warm.

  
  
When the Doctor is a child, he thinks he understands.

  
  
(He doesn’t.  
  
He’s a child.)  
  


  
  
  
  
  
Koschei’s his first kiss. They’re five.  
  


  
  
  
This is the story:  
  
He’s drawing something simple. Pastoral. A bunch of trees, and himself standing on the ground with his grandmothers, smiling.  
  
Koschei takes the green crayon.  
  
He asks him to give it back.  
  
Koschei tells him the price.  
  
It’s a fair trade. Two seconds. Koschei nods once after, like he’s just figured out some greater secret that he had been puzzling over for ages, and all he can think is _is that all_?  
  


  
  
  
  
  
(Their first real kiss is nothing like that.

He’s doing his homeworks when there’s a tap on the window.

When he turns, he sees Koschei balancing himself on the metal grating and pushes the window open, hissing, "Are you crazy? Someone's going to see you!"

"Stop fussing!" he says.

And then he kisses him.

It's slow at first, though it builds quickly until Koschei’s mouth is moving fast and demanding and urgent over his. Koschei’s hands are warm as they slide along his skin underneath the shirt, the pads of his fingers rough against the sensitive skin of his back.

He groans against his mouth as Koschei’s hands slide along the side of his body down towards his hip.

"Koschei-," he says, trying to place space between them.

He doesn't let him.)

  
  
  
  
Koschei’s family and his grandmothers talk about him and Koschei when they think they can’t hear. Low tones and smiling whispers about their future, about how they’re headed for something they don’t yet understand.  
  
He can’t help but bristle at it.  
  
There’s so much his grandmothers don’t - and won’t - ever understand about him, and for them to talk about him and Koschei like they can’t make up their own minds, like they don’t know what’s best for themselves?  
  
It doesn’t change anything.  
  
He knows himself. He knows Koschei.  
  
There’s too much that would stand in the way. Their history, their friendship, their shared secrets -  
  
it’s too simple to be love. Too uncomplicated. He knows how this is supposed to unfold - the way love changes how you think and how you see the world (and yes, it’s brain chemistry, but also something beyond it, like knowing something, and later absorbing it as truth inside of yourself.  
  
Like the first time you swim out in open water, and discover how much the word _depth_ holds).  
  
He knows that love is supposed to be like how he feels when he looks out the sliver of window into space, when he sees old pictures of Earth and dreams about it: the way the air smells, the look of trees, the soft firmness of the soil beneath his feet.  
  
It’s supposed to be something you can’t stop thinking about.  
  
It’s supposed to be _wanting_.  
  
  
  


  
  
  
A boy tells him he wants him.  
  
A boy tells him he loves him.  
  
He tastes blood in his mouth.

  
  
  
  
  
  
This is the story:  
  
A boy comes into a war he didn’t know he was fighting until it was too late. A boy comes into a war looking for his best friend, and fights for his memory, because it is a war, and fights for the idea of him, because his friend is missing and he never got the chance to show how he loved him because they took him and he was gone and it was a war.  
  
A boy comes into a war with a gun in his hands, and his heart in his mouth and presses the button that will end it.

  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
That night, the Tardis hums to comfort him as he cries so intensely that it makes him gag.  
  
  
His heart is spilling all over the floor, and he thinks _it wasn’t enough, none of it was enough_ because he was supposed to bring peace, and now, there’s nothing left for him to bring it too.

Gallifrey’s gone.  
  
He thought he knew the risks. But there is something about loss that makes him feel like a child again, like he hasn’t known anything he’s been speaking about.  
  
He used to be curious about the darkness in Koschei’s eyes sometimes, about the way he looked when he wasn’t sure anyone was watching, guarded and deep.  
  
He doesn’t wonder now.  
  
He can taste its bitter tang on the back of his tongue for himself, and he can’t understand living a life like this. He can’t understand getting past the weight.  
  
_I_ _t’s not your fault_ , the Tardis presses into his mind, and he knows that already.  
  
The problem is, whether his fault or not, Koschei is still dead, their people are dead, and he was the one who made the choice. The problem is no one gets to choose to take someone else’s life away without a cost. The problem is there is someone he is before this act, and there is him now, after.

He’s looking at all these multiple versions of him like reflections in a fractured mirror, and he isn’t sure which one is the truth anymore, or if there is no more truth to himself. Only variations of distortion.  
  
The truth is it scares him that he could do this so easily, and his heart breaks because it must break, because the opposite of inflicting a death is honoring a life, and he will do it because he is this person; he will be a Doctor because he must; he will because his people are dead and Koschei is dead and this is how he will pay them homage.  
  
  
It is his duty.  
  
It is his burden.  
  
  
  


  
  
  
He never brings it up again.  
  
It’s for the best.

  
  
  


  
  
  
(He has nightmares, though. Smoke and orange flames burst behind his eyelids, and he gasps awake in the dark, sheets tangled around his legs.

Koschei is gone, blown into a million tiny pieces, blood and grit and ashes tossed by the raging explosion.

He screams and screams, but no one can hear him.)

  
  
  


  
  
  
  


Turns out Koschei is alive.

When he sees him, he almost sinks to his knees.

“Koschei,” he says, reaching out to him.

Koschei's eyes harden and there it is - the suspicion, the cynicism, the _weight_ that bears down on the only person he’s ever really cared for.

Koschei stands before him with his face guarded and his posture carefully constructed to be tall, to appear strong and defended.

“That’s not my name.” He says and the whole world comes shuttering.

  
  
  


  
  
  
but is he wrong?  
  
He took him everything he had. His planet, his family, their friendship.

The Master looks at him the way people from their planet used to do when he first got into the Academy.  
  
As if they had no idea why he was there.  
  
As if he was some kind of monster.

Only, this time he is.)  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
Wilfred says _you have to give_ _him_ _time_.  
  
He holds a cup of warm tea -- or what passes for tea -- against his mouth, and says, _do you think he’ll ever forgive me_?  
  
Wilfred’s face softens.  
  
_He’s just been told his planet is gone_ _._  
  
The Doctor hums, nodding _._

 _I_ _get it._ He says and he closes his eyes feeling the heat of Gallifrey’s explosion on his face. _H_ _e hates me._ _W_ _hy shouldn’t he?_  
  
_Well, you couldn’t let the whole universe being razed to the ground_ _, that’s for sure._  
  
_H_ _e wanted me to fight._  
  
Wilfred’s shoulders sag. _S_ _ometimes_ , he says, quiet, _S_ _ometimes, the smarter thing is not to._

  
  
  
  
  
  
And then, the Master’s gone again and he’s left alone to cope with his loss.

He sees the way Amy and Rory look at each other ( _fight for each other, die for each other_ ) and tells himself it isn’t that. Nothing he’s ever felt for him has come close to that. And then he loses them. He keeps losing these people he’s close to because of mistakes he’s made, and when does it stop? How does it stop?

River dies, trying to protect him, and others die, trying to avenge him, and he never asked for any of this.  
  
Love comes with a cost.

But he is so tired of this.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The day he arrives at Carnathon the rain is pouring down from the sky.  
  
"This is a bad idea," Nardole says. "You can’t really expect him to- "  
  
“He’s a _she_ now. ” He frowns, eyeing the security towers and the gates. "We have to figure out a way to get inside."  
  
Nardole shoots him a disbelieving look. "You want to break into a military base? Are you crazy?"  
  
"Come on," he says. "Are you with me or not?"

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He begins walking the perimeter of the campus with Missy in the early dawn hours. It reminds him of what they used to do back on Gallifrey.  
  
Missy’s unusually quiet during these walks, and he likes to soak in the noise of the morning when it’s just the forest humming. They walk in step, close enough to each other for their hands to occasionally brush.  
  
They don’t usually talk.  
  
It’s enough for him just to feel her presence. Life on Earth has been so different from what it was like when they were on their own - here, he’s made to feel their separateness, Nardole hovering around him reminding him of the things that he’s supposed to be doing, the things he’s supposed to be, the life he’s meant to lead. Clean suit, neatly combed hair, uncluttered office.  
  
  
He reaches for her hand before he can think to stop himself.  
  
“Nardole says you’re not eating.”

Her eyes flick up to meet his, and a sudden burst of nervousness runs through him. She meets his gaze with her own, still and somber.  
  
“You never listen to me,” he says.  
  
She manages a small laugh. “I’ve been listening to you my whole life and look where it got me.”  
  
He doesn’t respond because he can’t think of anything else to say. It falls quiet.

A girl holds a boy’s hand at dawn in the quiet of the woods.  
  
A girl. A boy. A war.  
  
He drops her hand.  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  


The story is  
  
a boy dies for love.  
  
a girl kills for love.  
  
a pair of lovers suffers because of bad decisions because of love.

  
  
The truth is  
  
a boy dies.  
  
a girl kills.  
  
a pair of lovers can’t be a pair of lovers if they don’t know they’re in love, can they?

  
  
  


  
  
  
  


This time, he regenerates into a woman.  
  
The Master, drunk, stumbles into her Tardis with a deep scowl on his face, his eyes black.  
  
“Master,” she greets him, sharp.  
  
“Doctor.”  
  
She takes a step forward.  
  
(It’s a mistake.)  
  
“How did you - ”  
  
The Master moves towards her, connects a punch before she even knows what’s happening.  
  
Then there’s another, and another.  
  
“Get off me!” She shouts, tasting blood in her mouth.  
  
“You left me to die on that ship!” He growls.  
  
She blinks through a swelling eye.  
  
“You weren’t supposed to die,” she whispers, hearing her own voice crack. The tears are hot against her cheeks, and she hates this, hates mourning, hates how ghosts seem to keep following her no matter what she does.  
  
She looks up at him.  
  
(A girl forgave.  
  
A girl asks for forgiveness.)  
  
“I never meant to let you die,” she says. Her hands shake and he takes them between his own, forcing them still. “Never.”  
  
“You made a hard choice.”  
  
“It wasn’t mine to make.”  
  
“It’s already done,” he says, quiet. “You can’t change anything now.”  
  
“But I can’t live with it,” she whispers.  
  
He holds her against his chest, silent.

And isn’t that what love is, at least in part?

  
  


She dreams of the Time War that night. Of (what they thought was) the final battle.  
  
The Master throws himself back into the fight.  
  
She shoves him aside, pushing her way into the Tardis.  
  
_D_ _on’t leave without me,_ he says _._ _D_ _on’t close the door on me,_ _Thete_ _!_  
  
She swallows hard.  
  
_I_ _can’t wait_ , she says. _I_ _can’t._  
  
_D_ _on’t do this to me!_  
  
The Master runs for the door.  
  
Her hand presses the button.  
  
  
  


  
  
  
Only this time the war goes on.  
  
Gallifrey falls again.  
  
  


She sees the way her fam looks at the two of them.

 _We used to be friends_ _, that’s all_ , she hears herself saying, over and over and over.  
  
But the truth is she trusts him. With her life. With friendship. The Master knows the truth of her more than anyone else there. He has seen her in her worst moments of leadership, of weakness, of vulnerability. And she’s seen that in him too. Yet, she keeps telling herself that this doesn’t make them anything more than what they are.

  
  
  


  
  
  
_(and her head?_   
  
_and her heart?)_

  
  
  


  
  
  
He pins her to the bed with his hips, his dark hair mussed and unruly. She breathes his name, and his answering laugh is low and warm.  
  
He pushes inside her, and she sighs, wrapping her leg around his to draw him closer.  
  
_I_ _missed you_ , she says.  
  
He leans down and sucks a bruise against her pulse. She stifles a groan.  
  
_I_ _missed you too._  
  
He grinds his hips slow, leaning down to close his mouth over a breast. Her nipple tightens against the flat of his tongue, and her breathing speeds, just so slightly. His arms brace on either side of her as he begins to rock his hips against hers. Her hands reach up to draw him in for a kiss, her mouth hot and desperate against his.

  
_P_ _lease_ , she says. _Master_ _, please._

  
  
  
She wakes up panting.  
  
Dreams don’t mean anything.  
  
Everyone knows that.)  
  


  
  
  
  


They take a long walk among the ruins of Gallifrey. In the stories, this is when the girl tells the boy that she loves him. Or the boy tells the girl that he loves her. Because love conquers everything, because love is the first and last thing you should want to share.  
  
The truth is fear is just as strong as love, if not stronger.  
  
The truth is they’re both afraid of more things they care to admit - of the war, of dying, of living, of being rejected.  
  
The truth is the only thing standing between the two of them is the two of them.  
  


  
  
  
  
  


“Do you blame me,” she says, “for what happened during the war?”

He bares his teeth. “Is that why you called me in here? To review the past with you?”

“You didn’t answer me.”

“You deserve an answer?”

"What I deserve-"

"What _you_ deserve” he says, pinning her in against the wall with his arms, “is something beyond me.”

She meets his gaze, swallowing hard.

“I didn’t ask you here to fight.”

“You didn’t ask me at all!” he snaps.

“I didn’t _bring_ you here to _fight_ ,” she repeats. “Better?”

Sunlight drips through in thin shafts, bright lines of light cutting across his cheek. She draws her hand up to cup his cheek.

“I’m tired of running” she says, her voice sliding through a crack on the last word.

“Then stop,” he whispers, brushing his lips against her mouth. “Just stop.”

“I’m sorry” she breathes out, feeling her throat tighten.

He licks his lips. “Me too.”  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  
  


  
  
  
A girl goes to war.  
  
A girl learns of love.  
  
A girl learns.  
  
  
  


  
  
Blood on blood.


End file.
